With the dead it seems different. They
are at peace. It is motion in the wounded that transfers suffering to
oneself. A red quiver is worse than a red calm.
Antwerp fell. The retreating Belgian army swarmed around us, passed us.
In the excitement every one lost her kit and before two days of actual
warfare were over we had completely forgotten those little tents that we
had practised pitching so carefully, and that we had meant to sleep in
at night. Little, dirty, unkempt, broken-hearted men came shuffling in
the dust of the road by day, shambling along the road at night.
Thousands of them passed. No sound, save the fall of footsteps. No
contrast, save where a huddle of refugees passed, their children beside
them, their household goods, or their old people, on their backs. We
picked up the wounded. There was no time for the dead. In and out and
among that army of ants, retreating to the edge of Belgium and the sea,
we went. There seemed nothing but to return to England.
The war minister of Belgium saw us. He placed his son, Lieutenant Robert
de Broqueville, in military command of us. We had access to every line,
all the way to the trench and battlefield. We became a part of the
Belgian army. We made our headquarters at Furnes. Luckily, a physician's
house had been deserted, with china and silver on the table, apples,
jellies and wines in the cellar.
Pages:
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146